A bit of Theatrics
by satan-chillin
Summary: Crowley has the flair for the dramatics.


Aziraphale supposed that it wasn't quite surprising that he ended up in his present situation.

Namely, tied against a stake and condemned to death by burning.

Aziraphale didn't regret the miracles that he did, not at all. There was always the satisfaction in miracles well done in the guise of healing the sick through an experimental herbal mixture, of treating wounds and patching ruptures on the skin through deft and experienced hands, and of lowering fevers and curing pain in the bones through essential oils he personally anointed.

He wasn't looking forward to the paperwork that would follow the discorporation, however. Gabriel enjoyed jesting at Aziraphale's expense around the department a tad much, and Aziraphale wasn't planning to add fuel to the fire—pun intended.

"Witch!" cried the first person who declared Aziraphale as anything but a humble healer with considerable knowledge in the art of healing under his belt. The disguise was probably getting a bit old.

"Heathen!" yelled another, an old townsperson that Aziraphale vaguely remembered helping with his ailment of the joints. It was disheartening to see that the old man forgot that it was Aziraphale's advice of eating more legumes that aided him and not a spot of miracle by Aziraphale's hands.

"A devil worshipper!" claimed a middle-aged woman. Aziraphale took offense. He was worshipping only the Almighty, thank you very much.

The Witchfinder who arrived into town cleared his throat loud enough for the rest to hear. He waited for them to settle down and spoke:

"We have gathered here today to sentence a local who wields the image of a healer to blend among us," the Witchfinder announced grimly, his low tone frightening even the small kids present. "Unfortunately for him, we are no longer ignorant of the ways of the devil and his servants, and today we will witness the execution of one who foolishly thought he could beguile us in his and his master's ways!"

Not only it was painful to hear that he was accused of following Him From Below, the Witchfinder's voice was also, er, shrilly to the ears.

"Whatever you have to say for yourself, witch, for we are generous to grant you a sliver of kindness!"

See, Aziraphale was a specialist in the matters of goodwill, being an angel and all, and he could say that there was nary an ounce of compassion in burning someone on the stake, legitimate witch or not.

Aziraphale smiled down serenely, and what he said was: "The term 'witch' isn't gender-neutral, dear boy."

Of the many things that Aziraphale was waiting for, the first of them was the standardization of English grammar.

Ah, well, he hoped that by the time he returned here it was already present. At least, if Upstairs would let him return without a hitch.

Aziraphale wondered where Crowley could have been at the moment. Last he heard of him, Crowley was off to the other side of the world, whisper at the ear of an emperor, he had said, who would commission a humongous structure that could possibly go down in history as one of the wonders of the world. Aziraphale wasn't in on the plan on how to lure said emperor to damn his own soul, but Crowley offered that he and Aziraphale took a stroll there some time, phrased in his usual Crowley-speak, of course, and Aziraphale had readily agreed.

A pity that Crowley would surely look for him to celebrate after his mission, only to discover Aziraphale's untimely discorporation. Crowley would be displeased.

Aziraphale missed the townspeople murmuring amongst themselves at his peculiar statement. They easily dismissed it as an exclusive oddity of a servant of the Darkness.

A lit torch started the flames from among the collection below of fodder and firewood drenched with oil. Aziraphale watched the fire began as a small glow to progress significantly larger when a mere flicker caught the flammable materials, growing upwards to Aziraphale's feet.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And… waited.

Aziraphale peered one eye and saw the flame licked on his foot.

It… tickles.

Aziraphale frowned. He knew it wasn't him rendering the fire useless. Then wh—

His eyebrows rose in surprise. He thought he saw a face there for a second.

"Oh, goodness gracious," said a woman before making a sign of the cross.

It turned out that it wasn't only him. He heard the horrified gasps from the crowd as they watched the fire grow ridiculously enormous around Aziraphale. He was unable to turn his back to see what got their eyes bulging behind Aziraphale, but by the looks and sound of it, it wasn't good.

"**Humansss," **said a booming and seemingly ancient voice behind Aziraphale. **"Ye art making a great missstake."**

Aziraphale couldn't help but sigh. It truly wasn't good.

"The devil! The devil himself!" roared one of the women before promptly fainting.

Aziraphale hoped she was alright. The ground wasn't soft after all.

"**What givesss ye the right to harm thy human."**

"'Thy' means 'your', Crowley," Aziraphale whispered discreetly.

"Whatever, angel, I'm saving your ass here," Crowley grumbled back in a whisper using his normal voice.

A couple of wailing women fell on their knees in prayer as the others scrambled on their feet to escape. Balls of flames were spat out of the bonfire, raining on the fleeing townspeople to stop them from running away. One or two of them were almost hit.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale hissed. "Careful of the children!"

"Where is the priest?!" shouted the Witchfinder as he scrambled backward on his elbows, glancing around, terrified. "Call the priest!"

A ring of fire formed a perimeter surrounding Aziraphale and the poor townspeople. Aziraphale felt bad for them. They probably didn't expect it to turn out this way.

"**Silence, worms!"**

"That was uncalled for," Aziraphale reprimanded, though he was grateful that the Witchfinder stopped screaming with his shrill voice.

A hush fell down on the cordoned area, with nothing but their frightful whimpers, silent tears, and hysterical murmurs of Espiritu Santi. Aziraphale decided that he would perform a big miracle on them afterward, mayhap after removing the terrible memory off their minds.

"**Hark! For ye art sinned and harmed what art mine."**

"Mine… your?" Aziraphale muttered lamely.

"**Ye have been gifted with a swain of mine that ye wanted to kill!"**

Swain? Him, Crowley's attendant? Or perhaps he meant…

No, of course not.

"I meant the other meaning," Crowley whispered helpfully. "Just… play along, will you."

"Have mercy!" cried a mother who embraced her two children closer to her bosom. "Leave the children, oh, please, I beg of you!" wept the woman.

"Yes, leave them the children out, Crowley. It's not like they know what's going on," Aziraphale told the demon in a warning tone.

"Fine," Crowley grumbled.

"**Ye who's aware of thou—"**

"—fuck this," Aziraphale heard Crowley mutter.

"—**their actions shall see that their deeds won't go unpunished! It is I who will rain upon you the fiery torment of hell, and eternal suffering you shall have until the days have gone. Blood you shall receive and damnation shall be your reward in return for the transgression you caused!"**

Aziraphale saw that four more women and an old man collapsed in sheer terror.

"**I ask thee, mine belo—dea—darl—"**

Aziraphale felt his cheeks warming that wasn't due to the heatless flames.

"—**angel****—"**

Aziraphale cleared his throat. He couldn't see Crowley's face, thankfully, or else he would tease him to no end once he saw it.

It, meaning his face.

"—**what thou wanted to do with these ingrates?"**

Play along, Crowley had said, and so Aziraphale did.

"Don't… Don't do it," Aziraphale said easily, his voice carrying to the people. "They don't know what they're doing, my dear," he added softly, genuinely. These people were misguided with the wrong notion of religion, much to Aziraphale's disappointment. He might not be privy to the Almighty's plan, but he believed that this wasn't a part of it.

"**Very well. If you insist."**

It didn't take much insisting, Aziraphale thought amusedly, but let Crowley.

"**Hear this, mongrels. By the grace of mine human, you are allowed to go, but remember that you are yet to be forgiven! For now, I take that is mine from your wretched hands, and upon my return, you will taste—"**

"Yes, yes, we can go now, dear," Aziraphale mumbled tersely, though his mouth quirked a little when Crowley released him from his binds.

"**We shall return!"**

They vanished in a bright blaze, and next thing Aziraphale knew, they were at a cornfield a good distance from the town.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Crowley hissed in an instant. "You're going to let them discorporate you, seriously? While I'm away even!"

Aziraphale blinked. "Oh, you'd rather be here when it happens."

"What? No—That's not—" Crowley groaned. "What if I didn't get in time?"

"But you did," Aziraphale pointed out. "There's no need to think of what-ifs, my dear." He tilted his head. "Though you didn't have to put the fear of, um, Crowley in them."

Crowley waved a hand, though he appeared less annoyed. "It's what they need in the long run. Trust me."

"You're right," Aziraphale agreed dimly, surprising Crowley. "Thank you, dear. You saved me from troublesome paperwork." And co-workers, Aziraphale wanted to add. "I owe you one."

"Ah, ah, ah." Crowley clicked his tongue. "Owing me one isn't as simple as a light favor."

"I know," Aziraphale said too happily. "The stunt you pulled is far from light after all."

Crowley smirked. "It was just a bit of theatrics."

* * *

mangled Olde English was intentional


End file.
